Nightmares, Despondency, et alia
It is the second day of March, and I can already hear the polished footsteps of these years shuffling past.
Onward, ever onward, and away.
The sickness has begun to excise itself from my body, leaving behind fever dreams and nightmares. I do not often dream, and I find the whole thing vaguely uncomfortable.
I remember pulling my gun too late.
My teeth falling out in chunks of porcelain.
There was a little girl, bleeding and mumbling.
It was horrible. As horrible as you would imagine.
But with one last bang of fear and terror, the nightmares tumbled away and escaped into the night.
They left me one last dream.
I was in the bedroom. There was a campfire, crackling upon the bed, and sitting around it were the characters from my novel, chatting amongst each other, trying to make their next move. Passing around forks and tin cans of beans.
They did not look like characters. They looked real. I can still remember the fire light, and the shadows, playing against their clothing.
They were trying to figure out what to do next, where to go..because I hadn’t written it yet.
I woke up.